My Jealous Heart
by nachalainne
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock bicker about a case, how to run the British government, and a certain grey-haired detective inspector.


"I'm already aware, Mycroft. Lestrade dropped the case file off this morning."

Sherlock's older brother stood at the doorway to the small apartment, surveying it with some disapproval. "Did he? How kind." The subject of Sherlock's housing arrangement was a constant source of bickering between them. It made little sense to Mycroft that Sherlock should live in such squalor - an indecently small, but well-lit, clean flat in one of the worst parts of London. Mother Dearest had provided a significant allowance for the younger - and unemployed - Holmes brother to afford a much nicer living in a less criminal neighbourhood.

Only naturally, Sherlock was obstinately drawn to the crime rate. He claimed he was fond of the graffiti - as much as Sherlock could be fond of anything - and frequently reminded Mycroft of the usefulness of the area's abundant and homeless vagrants.

The very thought of having _squatters_ near by made Mycroft shudder.

"It would behove you to set about it as quickly as possible," the elder Holmes explained. "It is a matter of some urgency."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached for his violin case. Mycroft's expression soured almost immediately. "If that were true, you would have dealt with it yourself, rather than giving it to those idiots at Scotland Yard."

"They are trained law enforcement, Sherlock. Solving crimes is actually their employ, and not a … silly game."

The locks on the violin case popped open with a loud snap. Sherlock whisked the instrument out of its bindings and quickly thumbed the strings. Mycroft stoically ignored him, but Sherlock noted the sudden tightness in his elder brother's jaw with some satisfaction.

"They're trained apes," Sherlock corrected after a quick scale. "What concerns me is why you bothered to deliver government business to the Yard in the first place. Especially something so obvious."

Mycroft idly rubbed his thumb over the curved handle of his umbrella. "It is the responsibility of the police to solve crimes, Sherlock."

"Yes - _legally_. And therefore _badly_."

Mycroft pursed his lips.

"You don't seriously expect me to believe that you - you, Mycroft - didn't know the answer before you'd handed the case off, do you?" Sherlock tightened the bowstrings as he spoke, not bothering to restrain his amusement. "Which leads me to conclude that you're very obviously patronising them. Not that they'll ever understand. Imagine the headlines - the London police force is so utterly incompetent that the British government has to _feed_ them easy cases to keep their egos up. They're a laughingstock."

"_Don't_ tell them," Mycroft answered threateningly. "A government cannot function efficiently without the full trust and support of the police. We're merely trying to encourage communication between our two branches."

"Ah, yes. Encouraging trust with a foundation of lies. I seem to recall a number of past cock-ups exploiting the effectiveness of that theory."

Sherlock's snide comments regarding government did not phase him in the slightest. Sherlock's choice in vocabulary, however, was genuinely shocking. "Cock ups," Mycroft repeated, incredulously. He was familiar with the word; he was familiar with most words, but where his little brother - his Oxford-educated, impolitic, little brother had picked up such a charming bit of slang, he couldn't even begin to fathom.

"Yes. It means mistake."

"I know what it means, Sherlock. I'm surprised that you do."

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered non-chalantly. "He has a very colourful lexicon. Mostly senseless palavers."

"I certainly wouldn't expect you to understand them, no," Mycroft replied with a slight smile.

Sherlock quickly raised the violin and raked his bow across the strings, making the most hellish noise. Mycroft winced and fished his phone from his pocket - Sherlock's childish scraping was typically his cue to leave. But as he stood up, Sherlock paused and spoke again.

"He is extraordinarily pre-occupied with sex," he mused. "If that's what you were referring to."

Mycroft very nearly dropped his umbrella. "And how would you know?" He asked, lips pursed into a thin, tight line.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "He's propositioned me twice- no, sorry. Three times now. Silly habit of his, I think - although he was quite serious the first time."

Mycroft's expression was strained in a way that was all too familiar. Sherlock dragged a victorious, little crescendo from the instrument in his hands as he looked up.

"Jealous?" He asked with a wicked smirk.


End file.
